That Witch Bitch

Ghosts

When you push open the door, you are greeted to a large room with faint jazz music floating in the background.

You watch in awe as several people dance around the table that appeared in the centre of the room. They were clearly drunk.

An elderly (or just maybe overworked) maid scuttles by, stopping briefly to stare at you.

"Such a shame. I thought you were a good person." You hear the woman's thoughts and are deeply offended.

"I am a good person." You say aloud, causing the drunk people to stop dancing and stare at you.

The maid had suddenly disappeared and you were left in what seemed like a staring competition.

Them against you.

After a while of intense staring, the only woman in the drunken group starts laughing and stumbles over to you.

"Haha! Look! We have a 'good person'"She stood next to you and placed her grubby hand on your shoulder and mimicked you. It just made the others started laughing even more.

You weren't that bothered about the others, or that her breath stank of liqueur, you weren't even bothered about the woman's dirty hands on your top.

What you were bothered about was how she had a striking resemblance to Aileen Wuornos who had been executed for killing multiple people.

"You know," You say, lifting her grotesque arm from your shoulder and facing the woman, "You look a lot like Aileen Wuornos!"

You were serious but it just made her and the others who hadn't moved from around the table laugh even more.

"Oh darling,I am Aileen Wuornos" she says, flipping her hair and strutting back to the others pretending to be like a celebrity on a catwalk.

The only black guy in the group flicked a knife open, staring at you exactly how a Hunter would stare at its prey. He did it discreetly like he was a trained killer.

He looked strangely alike to Richard Ramirez aka The Night Stalker who had stalked a bunch of teenagers at Camp Redwood back in 1984. You visited that place when you were younger. Apparently it was haunted but you didn't believe in ghosts.

Nowadays, you reconsidered your belief in ghosts, especially since being in the hotel. James Patrick March was the founder of this hotel and couldn't possibly still be alive.

Aileen Wuornos:

Dead.

Richard Ramirez:

Dead.

"Who and what are you people?" You ask, completely taken aback by how casual they were acting about this stuff.

If this was some sick Halloween prank, you were ready to hurt them badly. Truthfully, they were scaring you.

But instead of them answering, you were greeted by a familiar accent that filled your gut with more dread.

"Isn't it obvious by now dearie,"

James Patrick March says, striding into the room from behind the table holding a glass of champagne and sipping before sighing and continuing,

"We are ghosts."